


A date to remember

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8594512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: Mr Gold - he thinks, or hopes - has been invited to Belle's on a date. What could possibly go wrong?





	

Another shirt joins the small mountain of clothes currently littering Gold’s bed. His normally pristine bedroom now resembles nothing less than an indiscriminate ransacking by a clothes fetishist.

 

It’s ridiculous. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake, in his 50s, with more grey hair than brown, frown lines and just a hint of a paunch, and he’s all of a dither over what to wear. 

 

He weighs up the merits of blue versus burgundy and finally decides on a navy silk shirt. It’s smart, but casual enough to suit any eventuality, so now all he has to do is select a tie.

 

Or should he. He suspects it might be overkill to turn up at the apartment above the library dressed as if he’s about to go off to work in the City.

 

Reluctantly, he tosses the dark red tie to one side and eyes himself up in the mirror. The shirt is open at the neck and he’s wearing charcoal grey trousers. He selects a pair of antique cufflinks in the shape of spinning wheels, slips on his mood ring and takes a deep breath. It’ll have to do.

 

He just has time to choose a bottle of wine from his cellar and retrieve the flowers from the kitchen and then, well, then it’s time to see what lies in wait this evening because Gold still cannot quite believe he is about to go on what he’s been secretly praying is a date with the lovely Miss French. Or Belle, as he has to remember to call her.

 

He replays the conversation that has led to this evening’s get-together in his mind. Belle coming into the shop, eyes impossibly sparkling, chestnut curls bouncing, to apologise for standing him up for their usual coffee and chat at Granny’s and offering to make it up to him by cooking him dinner on Saturday. He’d smiled sheepishly, embarrassed at how lost for words he was, before nodding his agreement and busying himself with the fob watch he’d been tinkering with before her arrival.

 

Surely this is a date. At hers. And she’s cooking spaghetti bolognese. Although, hold on. Who eats spaghetti bolognese on a first date? It’s high maintenance and likely to result in serious splashback which is as unromantic as it gets. Almost as tricky as trying to tackle a whole crab, what with the implements and the propensity for shell to shatter and impale the person opposite. So perhaps it’s not a date. Just a friendly invitation then, by someone who craves company almost as much as he does. Yes, that’s it. It’s simply two lonely people spending a civilised evening together. 

 

Having successfully talked himself out of a date with the delectable Miss French, Gold feels one part sad, two parts almost relieved. No expectations of having to behave a certain way means he can relax but...well, it would be nice if there was the potential for it to go further. Still, someone as fragrant as the diminutive librarian would never ever ever want to be seen out and about with the notorious pawn broker. She is all sunshine and warmth, he is shadow and sharp angles.They are not compatible. Not at all. Not one whit.

 

He fiddles anxiously with his cuffs and brushes some invisible lint from his sleeves. A glance at his antique clock shows it’s close to 7pm and he doesn’t want to keep his hostess waiting. That would be most inappropriate. Although actually, more inappropriate still would be for him to sweep her up into his arms and kiss her senseless before she even has time to pour the wine. 

 

Wine. Damn, he still needs to choose a decent bottle of red. Nothing too expensive (he doesn’t want to appear to be showing off) but nothing that is going to make him wince with every sip. And, nothing, God forbid, involving a screw top lid.

 

He picks up his cane and makes his way down to the cellar and after a quick review of his collection, decides upon a nice Australian Shiraz. A nod to his hostess’s origins and perhaps a conversation point if they can’t think of much to say. 

 

For a man who loves to toy with words and meanings and always has to have the last word, he often finds himself painfully tongue tied when the exquisite Miss French fixes him with those eyes of hers, the colour of a Scandinavian winter sea. Thoughts freeze and it’s be easier to juggle soot or knit fog than muster a sentence together. 

 

Gold takes up the wine, before moving up and along into the kitchen to collect the small bunch of delicate blue flowers he bought earlier this morning. His heart sounds very loud in his ears, a loud buzzing that alarms him. Is he having a heart attack? And then he glances at the work surface and realises it’s his phone. A message. Idiot.

 

Hi Mr Gold, just wanting to check that you’re still ok for this evening. Really looking forward to seeing you.

 

His heart genuinely stutters this time.

 

But of course Miss French. I will be with you shortly. I hope red wine is a suitable choice.

 

He checks it for any spelling mistakes and correct punctuation and presses send. 

 

Sounds perfect. Bx

 

Gold promptly has a mini-breakdown. Bx - what does that mean, exactly. Is that a kiss or a typo? Should he ignore it (rude?) or respond in kind (presumptuous)? He glares at the message. And then, sighing, he sends a one-word reply which is dignified and most definitely does not convey the roiling in his stomach. 

 

Indeed. G.

 

By the front door, he shrugs on his woollen coat, and ties a polka dot silk scarf around his neck in case it’s cold outside. There is no turning back. Dove is waiting for him and Gold slides into the backseat, savouring the smell of warm leather. Dove drives him smoothly and in silence through town until he pulls up to the curb by the library and watches his employer as he collects his belongings together; he’s amused to see this usually urbane, imperturbable man look so nervous. He’s obviously got it bad for that tiny whirlwind of energy; who’d have ever thought that Gold could be reduced to such a nervous wreck.

 

Gold waits on the pavement until the cadillac disappears around the corner. He’s only too aware of Dove’s deliberate attempts to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is happening and doesn’t want to give him any more material to work with. 

 

He presses the button and waits to be buzzed in. Miss French chirps happily over the intercom and he introduces himself as Mr Gold (well it is his name), cringing as he does so. There’s a pause before she laughs gently and the door clicks open. Each step upwards makes him increasingly breathless until by the time he’s standing on her doormat, he’s wheezing like he’s just run a marathon. Before he has time to turn tail and flee, the door is flung open and he’s dazzled by a vision in scarlet and precipitously high heels and overwhelmed by an aroma of herbs and garlic.

 

Belle takes pity on her apparently frozen-to-the-spot guest and tugs gently at his arm so he stumbles over the threshold. It’s the first time he’s been in the apartment since it’s been occupied and he can see immediately that wonders have been worked with it. The walls are a duck egg blue, candles flicker on every surface and all the shelves are covered in higgledy piggledy piles of books and photographs. There’s a squishy sofa covered in soft velvet cushions and...what in the name of all that’s holy is that. If that’s a cat, then it’s the ugliest creature he’s ever had the misfortune to set eyes on. 

 

Belle’s arms are suddenly full of squirming orange fluff. She introduces Gold, over a series of yowls that only grow in volume, to “Ambrose”. Ambrose glares balefully at the cause of his removal from his corner of the room before he’s carefully placed in what looks like Belle’s bedroom (not that Gold is looking, not at all). The yowls continue unabated.

 

“Sorry about that, he’s not used to guests.”

 

“I can see that”, Gold replies, envisaging a visit to the dry cleaners as a few ginger hairs float gently down to the ground. “Still, I’m sure deep down he’s a charming beast”.

 

Belle giggles and then realises he’s still standing there in his coat, clutching flowers and wine. She takes the gifts and places them on the table before moving to stand behind him to help him out of his coat. As she takes hold of Gold’s shoulders her fingers accidentally brush against his hair and an electric shock runs through him. He cannot remember the last time someone willingly touched him and God, please never let it stop. He hopes - he really hopes - he doesn’t let a whimper escape.

 

Belle, thank the Gods, who must have been listening, seems blissfully unaware of the effect she’s having on him, and allows her hands to linger on his shoulders, heat seeping through. Once she finally hangs his coat up and ushers him to the sofa, he sits gingerly, trying to avoid as much fur as possible, before Belle bustles into the kitchen, returning with two glasses and a corkscrew.

 

“Dinner won’t be too long but I thought we could open the wine to get the party started”, Belle sing-songs, and does the honours. 

 

As the sound of the cork popping resonates around the room, Gold cautiously starts to relax. Nothing awful has happened so far and Belle seems her usual cheerful self. He watches as she carefully pours him a glass and waits until she too is seated on the sofa before raising a glass to salute her.

 

And then he notices that the skirt of her dress has risen slightly to reveal a tantalising glimpse of something silky and stocking-like and he’s lost and panicking and he can’t do this; he has to get out before he does or says something stupid like “I love you”, which is ridiculous. He barely knows her and yet, and yet, she does something to him, touches something deep within his withered soul and he knows it’s all hopeless.

 

He’s out of his seat so fast he jolts Belle and her wine spills into her lap but her gasp freezes Gold in place. His eyes frantically dart between the front door (his holy grail) and his startled host, unable to decide between flight or fight. The silence thickens around them and time seems to have slowed to a complete standstill.

 

Belle hasn’t said anything but her eyes have narrowed and are fixed firmly on his face as if she knows something of what is running through his head. She pats the seat next to her and he blindly obeys. Then in a rare moment of clarity, he knows he must try and make things better if something is to be recovered from this disaster of an evening. 

 

Gold tugs at his pocket square and a moment later is dabbing ineffectively at the wine stain before realising he’s got one hand on Belle’s thigh (the cause of all this commotion) to help give him some balance whilst the other is just a trifle too close for comfort to Belle’s - er, Belle’s…

 

Gold hears a hitch in Belle’s breathing and he’s appalled that he’s upset her. He’s ruined this, he’s made such an unmitigated mess of things that he might as well go home and just hole himself up in the cellar until the end of time. And then he feels a feather light touch on his hand, the one on Belle’s leg, and then a little more pressure and suddenly his hand is moving - only not of its own volition - higher and higher up, dragging the scarlet chiffony fabric with it. 

 

Gold really isn’t quite sure what’s going on and he risks a quick glance through his hair that’s fallen over his face, expecting to see a furious Australian doing her best impression of a Tasmanian Devil. 

 

Belle is certainly flushed, he’s not got that wrong; her cheeks are glowing and there is a heated look in her now darkened eyes. If the circumstances were different, Gold would think she looks positively fetching but now, oh he’s for it, he’s so for it. In a sudden movement, Belle sweeps his hands away and stands up. She’s breathing heavily, and when their eyes meet, she licks her lips (no doubt to facilitate the angry words about to emit from her mouth). 

 

Gold stumbles to his feet, stuttering out an apology, and puts his hands out to her in a conciliatory fashion, hoping to placate her. She pushes them away. And then, to Gold’s utter mystification, Belle suddenly turns round and in one smooth movement takes hold of her dress and lifts it over her head before turning back to face him.

 

Gold’s head is now spinning. The demure Miss French is now standing there in strappy four inch heel sandals, pale blue suspenders and quite frankly a very small amount of lacy undergarments. She’s tilting her head to one side, watching his reaction. All ability to think coherently has ebbed away; he feels slightly light headed, probably because all his blood has travelled south at an alarming pace. 

 

Belle takes a step forward, with a predatory gleam in her eyes. Gold stumbles backwards but in a room this size there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. In a matter of seconds, his back is against one of the bookshelves and Belle is right there, in front of him, cleavage heaving in a most distracting manner, still moving stealthily until her front is pressed up against his. 

 

Gold tries to think of England beating Scotland in the World Cup, of small puppies being drowned, of Granny’s overpriced lasagne but nothing seems to be helping his “problem” calm down. He knows she can feel him against her and he starts to stutter out an apology before being silenced by her mouth on his. It’s all heat and teeth and hands tangling in hair, and fingers tracing jawlines and this is going to be the death of him but at least he’ll die happy.

 

He can’t help but release a sigh of protest when Belle pulls away from him. He knew she’d see sense, he knew it was all a big mistake on her part but then she’s tugging him across the room, snaffling the rest of the wine en route, before pushing open the bedroom door and artfully dodging a hurtling mothball as Ambrose makes his bid for freedom.

 

Gold is propelled gently across the floor until he bumps up against the bed, loses his balance and topples backwards. Before he knows it he has a warm armful of Belle kissing him senseless and he knows better than to question her sanity and instead decides to go with the flow. 

 

After all, it would be bad manners to upset your host, now wouldn’t it?


End file.
